W. Foster Gaillard

About this location

A few stories people tell about this place

1. In the late afternoon, as W. Foster Gaillard’s law office hummed with activity, an elderly gentleman entered the elevator on the ground floor. The doors closed, and just before they opened again on the second floor, a soft voice announced over the intercom: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your next client is arriving in five minutes.’ The doors slid open, revealing Mr. Gaillard himself, who looked up from his desk and asked, ‘Did you hear that? Who’s our mysterious new client?’ Just then, a sleepy-eyed delivery driver walked into the reception area, mumbling something about being lost. Everyone burst out laughing—except for the poor driver, who was still trying to figure out why he was there.

2. In the late afternoon, when W. Foster Gaillard's law office buzzed with papers and phone calls, a delivery driver grumbled under his breath, ‘This place must be made of concrete—nothing ever gets delivered on time!’ Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the package arrived. The driver looked up at the dusty old clock and muttered, 'Next time I deliver here, I'll bring my own lunch.' A friendly neighbor passing by smiled and said, 'Welcome to Mr. Gaillard’s world—just another day in the life of a lawyer!'

3. In the late afternoon, when W. Foster Gaillard's law office buzzed with papers and phone calls, a delivery driver struggled to open the heavy glass door. Suddenly, a friendly voice from inside said, 'Just press the button!' The delivery driver pressed the button, and an old elevator creaked to life. As they rode up, Mr. Gaillard popped his head out of his office and asked, ‘What’s taking so long? I’ve been waiting for my sandwich!’ The driver laughed and replied, ‘Your sandwich is here, sir.’ With that, the doors opened onto a tiny elevator filled with sandwiches—all neatly labeled ‘To: W. Foster Gaillard’.

4. In the late afternoon, when W. Foster Gaillard’s law office buzzed with papers and phone calls, a delivery driver kept arriving with packages addressed to ‘Esq.’ instead of Mr., causing mild confusion among staff. One day, an elderly neighbor dropped by with a mysterious package for Esq., saying it was from his old college days. The next few weeks saw deliveries ranging from antique pipes to vintage books—all addressed to Esq.—until finally, one morning, a box arrived containing nothing but a note reading: ‘Dear Esq., please stop signing everything “Mr.”’